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When next she awoke, Iris found herself alone in Trystan’s bed. She was sprawled on her stomach in the middle of the mattress and she yawned as she pushed herself up.
The room was dark. And something told her it was very late at night, or possibly very early in the morning. God, how long had she slept? And where was Trystan? Had her restless movements while sleeping sent him in search of a different bed? Who could blame him? She tended to hog the bed and covers because she was unused to sharing.
She reached over to the nightstand and found the switch for the lamp. Half of the room flooded with warm light, and Iris was gratified to note that one of her oversized hoodies—a lime green one—had been draped at the foot of the bed. Silently thanking Trystan for his thoughtfulness, she tugged the warm, fleecy garment over her head and padded to the bathroom.
After taking care of her immediate needs, she checked herself out in the mirror and nearly screamed at the sight. God, what had he done with her hair? It was a tangled, frizzy mess of unruly curls. It was going to take forever to detangle it.
Ugh, that was a problem for later. Right now, her stomach was actively trying to eat her spine, and she needed food. She padded to the door, which was still crookedly hanging from the hinges, and thankfully unlocked. She eyed the damage for a moment, remembering the moment he’d kicked it in.
It had been an extreme action, but—now that her memory was less hazy—Iris could recall his panic and desperation.
It had confused her, that urgency. It still did. Yes, she’d been cold, in shock, but she meant nothing to him. And he’d mentioned on several occasions that his preference would be for her to try and head back to town.
Granted, he wouldn’t have expected her to do it in pitch black, stormy weather, but she still found his level of concern surprising.
She made her way to the kitchen, shuddering when she passed the closed door to her room on the way. Nausea surged to her throat at the thought of returning to it, but she knew she’d eventually have to go back in there. Her one consolation was that it was unlikely that Trystan would lock her in again.
She heard talking before she got to the kitchen and she smiled in anticipation, certain that it was Trystan speaking to Luna… but something in his tone of voice gave her pause and she stopped just outside the door.
“What were you thinking? Why did you send her out here? Was it some twisted game? I…” There was a pause as whomever he was on the line with—and it wasn’t hard to guess it was Mr. Quinn—interrupted him. “What the fuck do you mean you thought she’d get me out my rut? You mean she was a sacrificial lamb you thought I’d have fun toying with, don’t you? That’s twisted, Quinny. I didn’t need to be shaken out of my rut… I’m not in a rut. I’m re-evaluating. And I need you to respect my space and allow me to do that in privacy. I didn’t fucking want her here. She lacks
experience and even before I knew who her father was, I told you to cancel it.”
Iris gasped, her hand going to her mouth, and Trystan abruptly stopped speaking, obviously hearing the faint sound.
Aware that the jig was up and that she’d been caught eavesdropping, Iris stepped into the kitchen where Trystan stood facing the door, his mobile phone still plastered to his ear. His eyes were wide as he stared at her, face pale, lips thinned.
“I’ll call you back,” he barked into the phone, before swiping at the screen and tossing it to the counter.
“How’re you feeling, Iris?” he asked, his voice dark and intent.
“That was Mr. Quinn, wasn’t it?” she asked, pointing a shaky finger at the phone on the counter. He tossed the device an impatient glare before closing the distance between them in a few short strides.
“How are you?” he repeated the question, cupping her face and tilting it upward to stare into her eyes.
“You knew who I was when I first arrived, didn’t you?” she demanded to know, her sluggish brain finally making sense of his words. “You told him to cancel the interview, only he didn’t, and when I showed up you were angry with him and with me. Then you accused me of being an intruder when you knew full well that I was exactly who I said I was.”
“We’ll discuss that later,” he murmured, his hands still gentle on her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks.
Furious, Iris yanked her head out of his grasp and shoved at his stupidly big, immovable chest with the heels of her hands for good measure. Naturally, he didn’t budge.
“We’ll discuss it now,” she insisted, stepping away from him and planting her hands on her hips as she glared up at him. “You knew who I was, you knew I had a legitimate reason for being here, but you left me out in the rain and the cold! And then when I did get into the house, you accused me of trespassing, threatened me with arrest, and kept me locked in that awful fucking room for days on end. I’ve been here for a week, and not once in that time did you think to set my mind at ease and admit that you’d known about the interview all along. Instead, I was left for hours at a time, worrying about what would happen when the police finally came for me. Imagining being locked in a prison cell, exacerbating the terror I already felt of being trapped in that room.”
His throat moved as he swallowed, his face even paler than before, his silvery eyes stormy and troubled.
“I-I was furious with Quinny for ignoring my wishes. And I was pissed off with you as well, for being here, for distracting me from my?—”
“Your what?” she interrupted him shortly. “From your melodramatic moping? Because that’s what you were doing, hiding here, away from the world, with a major case of the sads. Something terrible happened to you, and I’m sorry about that, but that doesn’t mean you get to treat the rest of humanity like shit. It doesn’t mean you get to treat me like I’m somehow awful for having ambition, and for being excited about an interview that more seasoned journalists would be creaming over.”
“You’re right.”
“And I don’t think that—” she stopped as his words sank in, and tilted her head as she eyed him speculatively. “What did you say?”
“I said you’re right. I was being a fucking dick. And I’m—” He shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket as he glared fiercely into her face. Always so damned intense. “I made a lot of mistakes with you, Iris. I treated you badly. And I regret that. I wish… I hope…”
He was really struggling to verbalize whatever was going on in that clever brain of his and Iris remained silent, waiting, not sure if prompting him would send him skittering back into his brittle shell again.
“I know that I’ve said and done some truly shitty and unforgivable things, and I hope that we could possibly start over?”
